Exes and Aliens
by WingedWhale
Summary: Mycroft gets a call from his ex-boyfriend, begging our stoic spymaster to help him sort out his problems . . . A rollicking adventure fic, full of generous helpings of Johnlock and Mystrade.
1. Prologue

Mycroft stared at the computer screen in distaste, letting his displeasure show in the crease of his brows. The monitor showed a man in a ridiculously orange Hawaiian shirt with long brown hair and carefully manicured goatee sitting at a desk. The room on the screen looked much like the one Mycroft now sat in at MI5, except the walls were a nauseating shade of pink and there were rainbow lights hanging from the wall in the background. Mycroft watched as the man took a drink from a mug that bore a cartoon of a garishly green almond-eyed alien eating a piece of paper. Next to its face were words that read 'Aliens ate my tax returns.'

"Remind me again why you choose to operate out of a gay bar?" Mycroft asked wearily.

The man laughed heartily as if Mycroft had made a wildly hilarious joke.

"Don't forget, it's also a dance club!" the man said in an American accent. "And I've made it my headquarters, simply because I can."

Mycroft snorted. "You know, I'd really _love_ to help you, Ericson, but I'm afraid I'm dealing with my own set of problems here across the pond."

"You _owe _me!" the man exclaimed, the smile falling from his face a little as he gave Mycroft a pointed look. "Besides, you're the only English speaking expert on extra-terrestrial teleportation devices."

Mycroft glowered at him. "What are you suggesting? And please, if there's a god, let it not be what I think it is."

"Look, there's a lot of shit in my lap, Mycroft. And I can hardly scratch the surface of an explanation with a three-minute Skype call. Please don't make me beg you for help. Just bring yourself and a small team to Portland as soon as you can. Yesterday would be too soon."

"How many extra people do you require?"

"Two or three, plus you should suffice. Combined with my people here that should give us enough manpower."

"God damn it, Ericson, I don't know if I can get away."

"Your _Mycroft Holmes_. You can _always_ get away."

"What makes you think I have even the slightest desire to fly off to America and chase aliens with you?"

Ericson flashed him a knowing smile. "Because you can't resist me."

Mycroft didn't immediately respond. His gaze grew thoughtful. "Ericson, if we do find the creatures responsible, will you give me permission to kill at least one of them? Preferably by means of smashing its face in?"

"Mycroft, my darling, you can kill as many of those sonsabitches as you can get your hands on."

"I've always _loathed _aliens. You're just making me realise I've yet to take my hatred of them to new heights."

Ericson snorted. "See you soon then?"

There was a sharp sensation of not quite but almost pain in Mycroft's stomach. He closed his eyes, wishing he was in the midst of a nightmare, about to wake up at any second.

"I'll see what I can do, but I'm not making any promises. I may wield a fair amount of power and my reach may be long, but at the end of the day, I'm only one man, and even then I'm still just a tired human being."

Ericson snorted. "The sooner you get here, the sooner you can get to your boring chess games with terrorists."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"What species of ETs are you dealing with this time?"

The man carefully stared into his cup. "Does it really make a difference?" he asked carefully, avoiding Mycroft's gaze.

"It might. I'm not going to help you if you're tracking something like Nibiran squids." He nearly shuddered in revulsion of the creatures who could fly through the air and control vertebrate brains.

"No, I'd get the army to help if it was as bad as that," Ericson confessed. "We have a couple nests of Space Spiders. But there are a few pocket wormholes with unusual resonance patterns. I want you to take a look at the signature and see if you can't help me pinpoint the origin. Please Mycroft? I really don't want to ask for help from some old Japanese guy who barely speaks a word of English."

"Bloody hell, you won't quit will you?"

"No. Not when I could really use your expertise. Besides, I do enjoy the thought of seeing you."

"_Reinhardt . . ._" Mycroft warned, using the man's first name. He felt a solid knot form in his stomach as he considered the implications of the man's words. Mycroft was happy he wasn't currently transmitting video. He then fell into a startlingly tempting line of thought.

The very last thing he wanted was for this man to walk back into his life and into his bed. If he saw him face to face for any length of time, and an investigation of this nature would take a good few days, he ran the risk of repeating old mistakes. And Mycroft Holmes was nothing if not a man who learned from every mistake.

He had to do something that would shut the door of temptation if he was to seriously consider personally helping the man. There was only one logical path.

"I have a husband," Mycroft stated simply.

He watched as the other man's brows shot up in surprise.

"Oh . . . Forgive me then. How long have you been married?"

"Two years," Mycroft lied easily.

"Congratulations, Mycroft. Tell your husband he's a lucky man."

"He works with me. If I help you, you can inform him of that yourself."

"If he's agreed to put up with you for the rest of his life, I'll buy him a drink."

"Yes, how droll of you, Reinhardt."

Mycroft watched the man's phone buzz on his desk. The American heaved an unhappy sigh. "It's the damn director of the NSA again. Email me with your flight arrangements Mycroft."

And with that the call disconnected. Mycroft sat back in his chair, hardly believing what had just happened, and nearly blanching at the plan that was quickly forming in his mind. Some days, he really wished he could forget all the world's little secrets.


	2. Chapter 1

Mycroft Holmes was a man not easily rattled. Looking at his face in the mirror of the men's toilet he grimaced at his reflection. He hadn't slept in three days and had been desperately looking forward to the weekend when he had the first free day in his schedule in over three months.

_I should have told that stupid man to mind his own business the moment I first laid eyes on him._

But he hadn't done that. Indeed, he'd done quite the opposite. For a time, he'd even convinced himself that he'd _loved_ the bastard. Mycroft sighed wretchedly, wondering what had possessed him to agree to Reinhardt Ericson's request.

The last thing he needed right now was to get involved with anything even remotely to do with extra terrestrials. But the man had been right, he _did _owe him. And Mycroft Holmes _always_ paid his debts.

Yet the logistics of what he had just agreed to was by far what would contribute the most to causing him a lovely little stomach ulcer. And just focusing and _thinking _about what he was planning to do next was almost enough to make him call Ericson back and renege on the agreement.

This wasn't something that allowed him the luxury of picking out a couple of particularly talented SAS officers to accompany him to an interrogation. This required discretion. Even if he swore the hapless blokes to absolute secrecy, he didn't have the authority to _make _them go with him to America to search for aliens on behalf of his ex-boyfriend.

But there was one person that Mycroft was fully confident he could manipulate, as much as that said person would kick and throw a bloody tantrum at the very thought of doing what he told him. Though perhaps, the mere novelty of real life extra terrestrials would be enough to assure his acquiescence. A normal person's interest would at least be peaked at the mention of flesh and blood alien life. Unfortunately his baby brother was most assuredly _not _a normal person.

It might be best to have a shot or two of nice hard liquor before he went and laid his cards on the table. He might as well be a nice fellow and give that stomach ulcer a friendly invitation.

He found his trusty personal assistant sitting at her desk, digging into a just opened container of Greek yogurt.

"Clear my schedule for the next week, my dear."

"What!? Tell me you're joking."

"Would that I were," Mycroft said rather dismally.

"The world's not ending, is it?" she asked suspiciously.

Mycroft laughed mirthlessly. "It's nothing so Earth-shattering. Although with aliens, you know as well as I do, that one can never be too sure of anything."

"Aliens?" she said. "You told me you _stopped_ managing incidents involving extra terrestrials! Otherwise I wouldn't have had to put off those Scottish chaps that wanted you to review the wreckage they took into custody last year."

"I'm afraid that for this situation I'm making an exception."

The woman snorted indelicately. "Where are you going?"

"Maine."

"Better take a satellite phone. If you go traipsing about in the wilderness there, you'll be cut off from electronic communication otherwise."

"I'm going to take a commercial flight. I'll text you the number of tickets to purchase within the hour."

Mycroft left the building feeling more than slightly ill. He knew that he had to be stark raving mad for even considering going to the next place on his mind. But damn it, the alternative was worse.

His driver pulled around and cracked the window for instructions before Mycroft entered the vehicle. Mycroft exhaled, hoping his uneasiness didn't show.

"Scotland Yard, please, Simon."

Mycroft pulled his door shut with a little more force than was necessary. Simon looked at him carefully in the mirror.

"Bad day, sir?"

"You could say that."

It was barely past noon and though Mycroft couldn't even remember the last time he'd had a drink this early in the day, he quickly poured himself a heavy shot of Juan Patron from the car's mini-bar. He downed the alcohol quicker than he could truly even taste it and added another shot to the brandy snifter before he could think better of it. He then pulled out his phone and scrolled to the name of the man he was dreading to contact. He punched in a text message.

Driving to SY. Meet me outside in 10 minutes. - MH

A minute passed and then another without any reply. Then his phone buzzed.

What's he done this time? – GL

Mycroft rubbed a hand over his face, at odds with how to respond. Should he give the DI a pretext of coming on behalf of his brother? No, given the situation, honesty was by far the better option. He quickly entered another message.

Actually I need to see you about an issue unrelated to my brother. –MH

The reply came in seconds.

Oh? –GL

Mycroft wrote one more message.

I confess it's a lofty request, but you'll be generously compensated for your time and trouble. - MH

When the car pulled up to Scotland Yard he was far from being anywhere near intoxicated, but had a pleasant warmth in his chest from the tequila. Had he not been an atheist, he would have surely taken the time to mutter a prayer before going any further. After a minute of waiting, Gregory Lestrade exited the building and opened the car door. The DI had a wry expression of interest on his face.

"So," he said, holding the door open and showing no inclination of getting into the vehicle. "What might the high and mighty Mycroft Holmes want with an boring and ordinary DI such as myself?"

Mycroft was only vaguely aware that the expression he must have been wearing was not one of unshakable confidence. He watched as the handsome DI arched a brow at his demeanor. They had only spoken a handful of times and always about Sherlock. He wasn't used to talking about personal matters. His heart rate doubled.

"Are you all right?" Lestrade asked a little uncertainly.

"No," Mycroft answered honestly. "No, I'm really not."

Lestrade finally took the seat next to Mycroft.

"Now I'm really afraid to ask what it is if it makes you look like you're going to vomit all over this Italian leather," he said patting the seat.

Mycroft attempted a steadying deep breath and forced himself to look at the Detective Inspector.

"I received a summons from someone in America. There are things, top secret things, that common citizens in the general populace of the planet have no idea exist. I need to help a man deal with a top-secret problem and I need the assistance of intelligent individuals I can trust. This matter is so sensitive that the few men in this country who already have the security clearance necessary for involvement aren't authorized to take on work of this nature outside of the UK. I can't ask them to accompany me to America. However, I can ask my brother, John Watson, and you."

"What exactly is this about?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft squeezed his eyes shut, dreading what was coming.

"_Extra-terrestrials," _he said in a semi strangled tone.

Lestrade was silent for almost a full minute. "Why me?" he asked at length. A sharp sensation tugged at Mycroft's gut. "I understand why you'd involve Sherlock, even John, besides his role to keep Sherlock in line, he's a trained military man. But me, what can I _possibly_ offer you, that you need me to join you in something like this?"

"You already get along with John and mostly get along with my brother," Mycroft stated obliquely. Lestrade snorted, not buying it.

"_Please_," Mycroft said, uncharacteristically putting a note of emotion into his voice. "I need you to be there. Despite what you're going to think, please know that you'll be doing me an unforgettable service that will be handsomely rewarded with financial dispensation. I'm prepared to write you a check comprising six figures."

Lestrade jerked his head at the words.

"You want to pay me one hundred thousand pounds to help you deal with aliens in the United States?"

Mycroft didn't blink as he held Lestrade's gaze. It was now or never.

"No. I want to pay you two hundred thousand pounds for helping me deal with aliens in the United States whilst pretending to be my husband."

Lestrade blinked. His expression might have been comical, but Mycroft was far from being in a jovial mood.

"I can make it three hundred thousand if you want," he added softly.

Lestrade shook his head as if to clear it and looked at Mycroft carefully.

"So this man that contacted you . . . "

"is an ex of mine, indeed."

"You want him to think you've moved on and found someone else."

"After a fashion, yes. I'd do almost anything to assure that he won't try to talk his way into my bed. If he thinks I'm married, he won't cross any lines."

"How long were the two of you together?"

"Three years. I haven't seen him in nearly ten."

"I'm sure you must realise how ludicrous this sounds."

Mycroft gave him a pointed look of misery.

"Oh, believe me. I do."

"Somehow I never quite imagined it'd come to this when I first started working with your brother on a regular basis."

"I know." Mycroft was aware of the painful tension in his muscles and wished he could make himself relax. Damn it but he wasn't used to being to out of control. It was infinitely worse that Lestrade openly witnessed him being in such a state.

"I only have one question, . . ." Lestrade said after a stretch of silence.

"What do you want to know?"

"Well, here's the thing, if your ex-boyfriend is half as smart as a man who secretly runs the real-life X Files should be, you must understand that in order for your little marriage charade to be convincing, your supposed husband must actually be interested in men. Otherwise this man could easily sniff out your lie. So, . . . how did you know I'm bisexual?"

Mycroft's eyes widened at the DI's words. He felt the air go out of his lungs.

"I, . . . _I didn't know_."

Now it was Lestrade's turn to look surprised. Then he composed himself and favored Mycroft with a genuine smile. Mycroft felt the tension he'd been feeling quickly change to something decidedly different.

"Look, your brother's saved my arse enough times that I owe him more than I care to admit. We both know that Sherlock, being the insolent git that he is, won't ever ask for help when he needs it. So by extension, helping you is as close as I'll get to helping him." Lestrade sighed theatrically. "I've quite given up on normalcy when dealing with anyone whose surname is Holmes. When I first met your brother, I was convinced there was something in his blood. Now with what I know about you, I'm sure of it. You both have it. By the looks of it in equal measure."

"Does that mean you'll help me?"

"I'm most likely proving my insanity in doing so, but yes. If the great Mycroft Holmes, master puppeteer of the shadows, is so distraught at the thought of doing this without me, then sure, what the hell, aliens can't be any worse than some of the shit I've dealt with in this city."

"I hope you understand that I don't say this often, but thank you. I appreciate this more than you can possibly know."

"I think I have some idea."

"I'll have my assistant issue your department an official excuse to explain your absence from work."

"With the cash your offering, I'm not worried about the state of my employment. Especially, if I can keep the money out of the hands of my ex-wife."

"You needn't worry. I'm quite versed in discretion. The only way she'll know about the money is if you tell her yourself."

Lestrade leaned back in his seat. "What now?"

"Now we pay my dear brother a visit."

"Oh, that'll be fun."

Mycroft let out a tired sigh.

"Indeed."

He only hoped his brother was half as amicable about the situation as Gregory Lestrade had been. But he knew full well that wasn't likely.


End file.
